Gone Tomorrow
by brownc0at
Summary: Leaving her was the first selfless decision he'd ever made - but was it the right one? Post-Awakening Amell/Zevran.
1. Chapter 1

Solona could feel the storm approaching before the first cool drops of rain pelted her skin. The night air was oppressive, and from her perch atop the battlement she could see no farther than the gates of the Keep. The guards always protested when she came here, entreating her to seek shelter from the elements, but she would wave them away with a laugh. She herself was a storm, after all; with a gesture of her hand, she could bring forth snow, forge rains of fire, and command lightning. She came here when the weather turned dangerous; to feel the power of nature, to tempt fate, to be alone with her memories. Always, her thoughts would return to one tempestuous night in Denerim, when the skies had opened to wash away the blood of darkspawn, and men had danced in the streets, heedless of the cold. That was the night she became the Hero of Ferelden.

That was the night she fell in love with the assassin.

xxxxx

When she lifted the borrowed sword and charged at the archdemon, aware that these might be her final moments in the waking world, it was his face she held in her mind. When she opened her eyes to discover that Morrigan's ritual had worked and she still lived, it was his face bent close to hers, whispering words she didn't understand as unshed tears glittered in his pale eyes. Everything she had longed to hear and been too afraid to demand was written across his face in that brief moment, before he realized she was awake and his mask slipped back into place. Then Wynne was knocking him aside to tend to her injuries, and she hadn't seen him again for many hours.

That day, as the darkspawn fled back underground and men chased the stragglers from the streets, there was mourning. Many had given their lives in defense of the city, and everywhere, pyres burned in grim reminder. There were also bodies of darkspawn to dispose of, and the carcass of the great dragon itself. Solona personally oversaw the collection of the archdemon's blood, and its transport to a heavily-guarded warehouse. Though the damage was great - the alienage in particular was in dire condition, and throughout the city fires raged and stone crumbled – talk had already begun of repair. Denerim was battered, but it would stand.

Then, as the city began to return to some semblance of normalcy, the celebrations began. When the taverns were filled to capacity, men overflowed into the streets, where minstrels played joyous melodies and merchants arrived by the dozens to offer their wares. The rain began just as dusk turned to true night, and children laughed, splashing in puddles and darting about to catch raindrops on their tongues. Then it started to fall in earnest, and a streak of lightning lit the sky over the palace, followed by a barrage of thunder that sent many of the revelers dashing for shelter. Solona stood, eyes closed and arms outstretched, enjoying the cleansing feel of the rain and the sounds and smells of the night. For so long, her life had been fighting and death, and now….Instead of screams of horror, there were shrieks of delight. Instead of the clashing of swords, there was the ringing of laughter. Instead of the smell of death and blood, there was fresh rain and the bitter tang of ale. When at last she opened her eyes, he was there, his blonde hair darker from the rain and his expression one of peculiar intensity, standing just out of reach.

She held a hand out to him, uncertain if he would come. He reminded her very much in that moment of a rabbit, poised to run at the first sign of danger. He stared at her with that unreadable expression for several long moments, and then closed the distance between them, his lips finding hers as he threaded his fingers through her hair. It was the first time they had kissed, and she savored it; the exotic taste and smell, the way she had to bend forward slightly to meet him. As the kiss ended, his hands came to rest on her waist, and when, in a tavern nearby, a minstrel struck up a slow, sweet tune, they began to dance. He was as graceful and sure then as he was in battle, and as he was later when she went to his bed. He proved to be a surprisingly generous lover, and when they both were spent he held her in his arms with a tenderness she hadn't known he possessed. As she drifted off to sleep, she whispered the words that she'd kept hidden in her heart for months, and if he'd replied that he loved her in return, she was not awake to hear it. Then the morning came, and he was gone.

* * *

Zevran stood at his small window, watching as the storm clouds cast Antiva City into shadow. Even now, such weather brought with it a tide of melancholy and regret. He had thought, at first, that he would simply forget and move on, but time had not dulled the ache. So, he embraced it, instead. He would open a bottle of fine Antivan wine, and allow himself to wallow in the past. He would welcome the pain, deserved as it was, and let it be a reminder of the many ways he had failed. He had once claimed to understand nothing of love, but in a single night he had both found and forsaken more happiness than he had known in a lifetime of careless pleasures.

xxxxx

He watched in horror as she sprinted toward the archdemon, arms shaking with the effort of lifting the two-handed sword. The weapon was much too heavy for her, and a part of him thought – hoped – that she would drop it, and Alistair would be forced to make the killing blow. But momentum carried her forward, bringing her to her knees even as the sword bit into the beast's neck. Then there was nothing but a searing light, and when his vision returned someone began to shout that the archdemon was dead. Men picked up the cheer in the streets below, but on top of Fort Drakon there was only silence, as Solona Amell lay unmoving in a spreading pool of blood. Zevran reached her first, and when Alistair arrived moments later, Zevran fought the urge to sink his dagger into the king's heart. Alistair had had his chance, and if she was to die now, her final moments would be with him, as it should have been all along, and not with the bastard prince who had tossed her aside. But then her eyes opened, and Zevran felt a wave of relief so strong it ached.

While the survivors sought loved ones and tended to their dead, Zevran wandered the streets of Denerim, awash in feelings he had no desire to examine. He had pursued the mage for the better part of a year, drawn to her power and thinking to add another name to his list of conquests. But she had already fallen for Alistair, and Zevran told himself that he was no one's second choice. Then Alistair had become king and cast her aside, and though she spoke of duty and the good of Ferelden, Zevran could see it had left her broken. It would have been the perfect time to step in and offer her refuge in his bed, but he found that the thought of taking advantage of her left a bitter taste in his mouth. So he offered his shoulder instead, and clumsy words of comfort that had never had a place in his world. She called him friend, gave him her trust, and as her heart healed, the walls around his own began to crumble.

When he finally saw her again after the battle, standing in the rain with her robes trailing in the mud and her long hair plastered to her cheeks, he'd meant for it to be his last image of her, one he could take with him and treasure in the moments when his life turned dark. But he had watched too long, and she'd noticed him. When he'd taken her to bed, it had been her suggestion, and though he knew he would only cause her pain, he was too selfish to resist. He had tried to put into his lovemaking everything that he was unable to say, and when she'd whispered that she loved him, he allowed himself one moment of hope that it could all be right. But he was an assassin, the son of a whore, a hunted man, and she was the Hero of Ferelden. She had shown him a thousand small acts of kindness, most of which he had not earned, and now he would give her this one: he would go, and leave her to a life with someone who could offer what she deserved.

* * *

**A/N**: I really need to learn to finish one story before I start another, but this was bouncing around in my head and wouldn't let go. I thought I should point out that I plan to keep going with it, since at the moment it feels a little like a one-shot.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! Comments are always welcome.

* * *

Solona climbed the stone steps to the entrance of the keep, the sodden hem of her robes gathered in her fists to prevent her from tripping. She had taken to wearing light armor in recent months, but today she found the familiarity of the old robes comforting. There was something about the leather armor that always reminded her of him – the remembered feel of it, smooth and cool over his strong shoulders, the faint rasping sound as her hands dragged across it…the smell. "If I only had a prostitute and some fish chowder," she murmured. The guard who had hurried to open the door for her fumbled in surprise, and she laughed softly.

By the time she arrived at her room, a trail of puddles left in her wake, she was shivering. After struggling out of her robes, she sank into a chair, dressed only in her smallclothes and too exhausted to search for something dry. She rested her elbows on the pile of correspondence that littered her desk, frowning as she noticed that it had grown larger since that morning. The ceaseless requests for aid and advice were more tiring and considerably less enjoyable than fighting darkspawn, and she frequently found herself missing the Blight. She had been raised in a stone tower; what did she know of solving squabbles among farmers? In a sudden fit of ire, she swept an arm across the desk, sending the letters cascading to the floor.

A knock came at her door, and she jumped to her feet, skidding a little on the wet floor, but the door was already swinging open. "Hey, Commander, I – Oh." Anders stopped short, grinning as he noticed her state of undress. "Am I interrupting something?" He raised his eyebrows suggestively as he closed the door behind him, and Solona rolled her eyes, moving to search for clean robes.

"Nothing fun," she said, pulling the dry garment over her head and collapsing onto her bed.

Anders picked his way through the damp sheets of vellum scattered across the floor and came to sprawl beside her. "I suppose those letters did something to deserve it," he said. "Insult your honor, maybe, or look at you funny? Forget to do the washing up after dinner?"

Solona turned to glare at him, but he was giving her his best look of wide-eyed innocence, and she ended up smothering a giggle. "I'm just so tired of all this," she admitted. "Arlessa. Really, how ridiculous is that? When I first got here, it was all fighting darkspawn and finding out who wanted to have me assassinated, and I knew how to deal with those things. Now I'm expected to figure out how to budget the money and settle everyone's disputes, and I just want to _kill_ something, already."

Anders burst out laughing, and Solona shoved him halfheartedly. "You know what I mean."

"And I suppose it has nothing to do with the fact that it's storming outside?" Anders asked, gesturing to the window as a flash of lightning illuminated the misty grounds of the keep.

Solona looked at him in surprise, and he shrugged. "What? You might have managed to resist my devilish charm so far, but we're friends, and I notice things. You always get upset when it's raining, and you put on your old robes and mope around all day muttering weird things under your breath."

Solona covered her face in embarrassment. "Am I that obvious?"

"Only to keenly observant, rakishly handsome apostates."

"Right," Solona said. "I'll remember that, in case I meet any."

"Hey!" Anders protested. "You can't just insult me and expect to change the subject. I have ways of making you talk, you know." He wiggled his fingers at her threateningly, and she giggled when a few snowflakes drifted down to land on her nose. "Um. Right, maybe that would've been more effective with fire."

"You set my bed on fire and I'll have you shipped to Weisshaupt," Solona said, yawning.

"Come on," Anders whined. "Just tell me."

Solona sighed, realizing that he wasn't going to let the subject drop. She rolled onto her side to study him while she gathered her thoughts, and wished – not for the first time – that things could be different. He _was_ handsome, and he could be charming when he wanted, and he always made her laugh. Seeing him stretched out on her bed, his long hair down for once and somehow looking perfectly mussed, should have had her blood boiling. The problem was, she had loved and been betrayed by two men in her life, and he reminded her too much of both of them.

Anders began to squirm under her scrutiny. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

"No," she said, forcing herself to return to the present. "It's nothing. I was just remembering another life. But it doesn't matter now. What's in the past should stay there, right?"

**xxxx**

Zevran sat with his feet propped on a small table, his chair tilted precariously, as he stared at one of the more interestingly shaped stains on the ceiling. The room was not the worst he had stayed in – there was, at least, a reassuring lack of rodents sharing the space with him – but neither would he recommend it to visiting dignitaries. All in all, the perfect sort of place to remain unnoticed. He was well and truly drunk now, and the storm was tapering off – an excellent time to slip out into the night and see what adventures awaited him. He could find a woman, perhaps…one with long, soft hair and kind eyes, who stood just a little taller than him, so he would have to stand on his toes to meet her kiss….

He pushed away from the table, conflicted and irrationally angry, sending the chair crashing to the floor. He staggered to the chest in the corner, a bottle of wine still clutched in one hand, and threw open the lid. He sank to his knees, haphazardly tossing aside his meager belongings until he found what he was looking for. He could not say why he had kept the gloves for so long; they were the first gift he had ever received, yes, but he was not one to give in to such foolish sentimentality. They were merely useful, that was all. They were warm, and fit him well, and though they had been frozen, burned, and drenched in darkspawn blood, they were still in excellent condition. She had enchanted them somehow, preserving them for him…a thoughtful act on top of what was already a surprising kindness. He set aside the wine and pulled on a glove, then, after a moment's hesitation, raised his fingers to his cheek. He could almost imagine that he felt the magic, her magic, emanating from the glove and dancing across his skin. It had been a faint tingle, something that he might never have noticed if not for his training, his ability to perceive those small changes in the air that alerted him to the presence of danger. She would gather her power, whether to attack or heal or simply light a fire, and he would feel it prickle the back of his neck, making all of the tiny hairs stand on end and, invariably, arousing him greatly. And then, he thought bitterly, he would slink off to his tent, alone, with nothing but the memory of her deadly beauty to keep him company.

He climbed to his feet and peeled off the glove, tossing it back into the chest and slamming the lid, as though blocking it from view would also shut out his memories.


	3. Chapter 3

In the soft light of early morning, the grounds of the keep seemed to shimmer, as the sun reflected off the drops of moisture still clinging to the grass. The day was hazy and not yet warm, and the air smelled of wet soil and something faintly metallic after the night's rain. Solona enjoyed this time of day, when the world was still and quiet, and she often woke early to savor the moments of solitude. Soon, the peace would be shattered by the clashing of swords as the soldiers trained, the barking of the few mabari they had managed to acquire, the shouts and laughter of men going about their lives.

"There you are!"

Solona looked up to see Anders jogging toward her, looking surprisingly cheerful. They had talked long into the night, Solona having eventually cracked under his repeated questions and explained about Zevran. He'd fallen asleep on her bed, and when she'd woken to find him there, snoring softly, with the pale morning sun turning his hair a lustrous gold, she'd all but bolted from the room.

He stopped in front of her, and Solona saw him grin as he noticed the leather armor she was wearing. He made a show of slowly raking his gaze up her bare legs, but when she glared at him, he merely smiled and asked, "What are you doing out here so early?"

"I need to go into Amaranthine," she said. "I had a message from Constable Aidan yesterday, saying he needed to speak with me about something important."

"Great, I'm coming, too!" Anders announced. "You owe me a present for leaving me all alone in bed this morning."

"Aw, don't tell me you finally decided to have a tussle with that manskirt-wearing freak, Commander." There was a great clatter, and they turned to see Oghren stagger from behind one of the merchant stalls, his eyes bloodshot and his beard caked with mud.

Solona sighed. _So much for peace and quiet_. "Oghren? Were you out here all night?"

Oghren hiccupped. "I came lookin' for that duster Voldrik. He bet me that I'd pass out before he did, and…eh…that's the last thing I remember." He looked around suspiciously, as though expecting the other dwarf to suddenly appear and claim victory, and then tripped over a displaced longsword.

Solona shook her head, moving to pick up the weapons Oghren had knocked over. "Go get yourself cleaned up, and you can come to Amaranthine with us. Maybe the walk will sober you up."

The sun had climbed high into the cloudless sky, and Oghren was just beginning to complain about needing another drink, when Solona noticed a disturbance on the road ahead. A tree appeared to have fallen across the path, and a wagon sat empty as several men attempted to clear the obstruction. One of them, larger than the rest, with dark skin and closely-cropped hair, saw them approaching and began to wave for help. "Wait," she whispered. Something about the scene in front of her seemed off, a wrongness that she was unable to name but nonetheless had her reaching for the staff secured on her back. The wagon was empty, which in itself was not suspicious – the men could have already offloaded their goods. Still, something was prickling at her memory, and when she caught the glint of steel on the tall man's back, she knew.

When the other assassins drew their weapons, Solona was prepared, stunning them with a hastily released spell before they could begin to close the distance. Anders and Oghren, though caught by surprise, followed her lead instinctively, and Solona found herself reveling in the fight after so much inaction. The dark-skinned man seemed to have marked her as the leader, and ignored the others to charge at her, sword held in a two-handed grip in front of him as he ran. She waited until he was nearly within reach to freeze him in place, and Oghren appeared at her side, his axe already swinging upward to deliver the next blow.

The assassin collapsed, and Solona crouched beside him, determined to get information before he died. She grabbed the front of his shirt, attempting to pull him into a sitting position. "Why did you attack us?"

The man coughed weakly, and drew a shallow, ragged breath before speaking. "Should have known better than…Grey…Warden."

His accent was achingly familiar, and Solona felt her pulse quicken as a terrible suspicion began to grow. "What?" she asked. "Who are you?" She shook him in frustration, but he had gone slack, and she lowered him to the ground with a curse.

"Grey Warden?" Anders repeated. "So they knew who we were. But why would anyone want to attack Grey Wardens?"

"Eh, sodding fools must've had a death wish," Oghren said. "Weren't even wearing armor."

Solona was on her knees, searching the man's body for some clue to his identity, only partially listening to the exchange. He was carrying a small pouch full of gold, but otherwise seemed unremarkable. She moved to another fallen assassin, this one an elf, his hand still loosely clutching a dagger. Solona slid the weapon from his grasp and examined it closely, wondering if it was of any value - a habit born of necessity during the Blight, when scavenging was often a means of survival. Even to her inexpert eye, it was clear that the blade was well-crafted, but there was something familiar about it, as well. The feel of it in her hand, the shape of the pommel, the perfectly balanced weight….

_They had been ambushed by a large group of bandits that day, just four of them on what should have been a simple errand. The sheer number of opponents threatened to overwhelm them, and her power had nearly been drained mere minutes into the fight. Alistair, who usually stayed close to protect her, had his hands full with their leader, and the remaining bandits focused their attacks on her, having marked her as an easy target. As a result, she never saw the rogue who melted out of the shadows behind her. Her first indication that she had been in danger came only when she turned to find her assailant collapsing to the ground, the sword he had been swinging at her exposed back sliding from his grip. Zevran stood over him, his own weapons dripping with blood and his face pale and angry. He had yelled at her, calling her foolish for leaving herself so vulnerable to melee attacks, and she had responded with her own shouts that if he was so damned worried, he should do something about it._

_And so she found herself in camp later that night, with an unusually irritable Zevran attempting to teach her how to protect herself in close combat. She raised the dagger, feeling absurd as she tried to remember the moves he'd shown her. A step forward, a thrust of the blade –_

_Zevran huffed impatiently, moving to stand behind her. "Do not swing the blade above your head – you are giving your opponent time to see the attack coming." He stepped closer, his body pressing against her back as he took her wrist, angling the blade downward. He guided her hand through the motion, nudging her hip with his own to force her to shift her balance. Her heart began to race at the feel of his body against hers, warm and solid, and in her distraction she fumbled the weapon._

_Zevran spun her around to face him. "No, no…if you wish me to teach you how to fight, you must pay attention!"_

"_I am paying attention," she snapped. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a mage. I've never done this before."_

"_It is all very well to say you have never done it before – I will be sure to tell that to the next assassin, just before he takes your head off!"_

_They were standing very close, shouting at one another, and his hair had begun to come loose, framing his flushed cheeks. Something in her body reacted to it, the sight of him slightly out of control, and she could see from the flash in his eyes that her reaction hadn't gone unnoticed. Her breath caught as he moved even closer, and she lifted a hand, suddenly needing to know how that pale hair would feel under her fingers. Then Alistair was there, demanding to know what was happening, and Zevran snatched his dagger from her hand and stalked away._

Solona looked up to find Anders and Oghren standing over her. The dwarf was busy counting the coin they'd taken from the assassin leader, but Anders was watching her closely, his eyes narrowed in concern, and she wondered what had shown on her face.

Solona climbed unsteadily to her feet, the blade laid flat across the palm of her hand as she extended it to show the others. Anders took the weapon and examined it, then shrugged, passing it to Oghren. The dwarf grunted. "Looks like something that girly elf used to carry."

Solona nodded, forcing herself to speak around the dread and anger constricting her throat. "It's a Crow dagger."

* * *

Zevran slipped out the door of his apartment, scanning the street for anything out of the ordinary. The sun had not yet burned off the fog rolling in from the bay, and to his suspicious eye, every shadow was a potential danger. When he was assured that no one lurked in the mist, he started down the street, the hood he wore both warding off the slight chill in the morning air and obscuring his face from any curious passersby.

He made his way through the narrow streets to the docks, following the smell of fish and salt that grew increasingly pungent as the water drew nearer. Though most of the city still slept, in this quarter the men rose early. Weary fishermen unloaded the night's catch, then returned to their ships for a brief rest before taking once more to the sea. Merchants had already begun to set up their stalls for a day that promised good business, now that the rain had passed.

Zevran sidestepped a small boy who darted past – most likely a pickpocket, he thought, fleeing the scene of the crime – and finally spotted his target. He watched from a distance as she exchanged a handful of coins and a quick word with a fisherman, who passed her a wrapped package. As the man tucked the gold into his pocket and turned away, she lifted her gaze to meet Zevran's, and gestured for him to approach.

"Something for my best customer this morning?" she asked, indicating the package with a sweep of her dark eyes. Her beauty was stunning – she might have been the sort of woman men fought wars over, or the muse of a master painter, rather than a fishwife. But then she turned her head, and her hair swung away, revealing the angry scar that marred her bronze cheek. "I would be willing to offer you a special price, courtesy of my friends on the docks."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "And when does this offer expire, my dear?"

"Oh, by nightfall, certainly," the woman replied with a smile. "Any longer, and I'm afraid it would no longer be…fresh."

"And such a shame that would be," Zevran said, reaching for the package and dropping a few coins in its place. "I will be sure to let you know if it is as good as you promise."

Back in his room, Zevran cut the binding on the package and carefully removed its wrapping, extracting the note that had been hidden between the layers of old vellum. One word had been scrawled there, in such a cramped, untidy hand that it took him a moment to decipher it. He stared at the note until he was certain he would remember the name, then tossed it into the remnants of his fire. He took his time readying for the task ahead - polishing his blades, applying fresh poison, carefully tucking assorted vials and flasks into his clothing. When at last he was prepared, he stepped into the now-bustling street, all of his thoughts focused on a single word: _Caterina_.

* * *

**A/N**: Sorry Zev's bit is short, but he was just determined to be mysterious. :) And thanks to mille libri for letting me bounce ideas off her.


	4. Chapter 4

Solona took the steps to Varel's office two at a time, ignoring the curious looks the recruits were furtively casting her way. She supposed she must have appeared half-mad –furious and bloodstained, wielding a dagger as she stalked down the corridor. She threw open the door, which rebounded with an echoing bang, and a passing servant gasped and dropped the basin of water she'd been carrying. Solona kicked the door shut behind her, cutting off the servant's exasperated muttering, and slammed the Crow dagger onto Varel's gleaming desk.

"I'm going to Denerim," she declared.

The seneschal sighed, setting aside the letter he'd been reading before she'd barged into his office. Solona hid a smile as he frowned and began to rub his temple. The gesture was a familiar one – she'd seen it before, when she'd refused to meet with visiting nobles or gone out scouting with the recruits rather than stay at the keep and deal with her mountain of correspondence. It was, now that she considered it, a look that she'd also seen on First Enchanter Irving's face with some regularity.

Solona would have expected anyone else to argue, or complain about the intrusion, but Varel, unfailingly polite, merely asked, "And why is that, Commander?"

"That is a Crow dagger," she said, pointing to the weapon on his desk. "I found it on the body of an assassin, after we were ambushed on the way to Amaranthine. Which, as it turns out, was all a setup, because when I spoke to Constable Aidan, he said that he'd never sent for me."

"I see…" Varel said, his frown deepening. "And Denerim?"

"There's a certain Crow master who owes me an explanation," she said, staring at the intricate design on Varel's rug as she paced in front of his desk. "We had an arrangement – I do some business for him, and the Crows don't take any contracts on me. And now this." She stopped suddenly, slamming a fist onto the desk. "I assassinated someone for him!"

If Varel was surprised by this news, the only indication was a slight lifting of his eyebrow. "Commander, I don't think-"

There was a crash in the corridor, and Solona ran to the door, opening it to find Anders, who was climbing to his feet with a groan. The same servant Solona had startled on her way into the office was standing nearby, holding a rag and wearing an expression remarkably similar to Varel's. Solona offered Anders a hand, grinning when she noticed that the back of his robes were soaked. "Are you all right?" she asked, stifling a laugh.

"I don't know," Anders said, rubbing his backside theatrically. "I might need someone to kiss it and make it better."

The servant let out a shocked gasp, and Solona gave in to her giggles as she ushered Anders into the office.

"Commander," the seneschal continued, as though there had been no interruption, "I'm not sure that this is the best time for you to be away. You have several meetings today, which you have already put off once. And at any rate, if the Crows are after you, it seems to me that the safest place for you is in the Keep."

"That's what I've been telling her all day!" Anders said, throwing his hands in the air. "But she refuses to listen to-"

"We can't just ignore the threat and hope it goes away," Solona said. "They will keep trying until the contract is fulfilled, and that puts everyone in the Keep in danger. This is exactly the kind of situation I was trying to avoid. Do you think I did all that work for them – in the middle of a blight, no less – just for the fun of it?"

"Are you really surprised that a bunch of assassins broke their promise?" Anders shouted in exasperation, realizing his mistake a moment later as Solona narrowed her eyes dangerously. He hurried on, "And you don't know that that Crow will still be in Denerim, or if he even survived the blight."

"Of course," Varel said calmly, "if you were to go to Denerim, I'm sure His Majesty would love to have an update from the Commander herself. I could write to him right now, and let him know you're coming, so he could prepare an appropriate welcome for you."

"Oh, very sneaky," Solona muttered. "I didn't think you had it in you."

She thought for a moment, then looked up with a gleam in her eyes that made Anders' heart sink.

"Very well, then. If you think Denerim would be a waste of time, I suppose I'll just have to go straight to the source. Pack your things, Anders – we're going to Antiva."

xxxxxx

"What if you get yourself killed?" Nathaniel shouted, slapping a hand on the table and upsetting a basket of bread that Solona had been reaching for. She frowned at him, but he continued, undeterred. "The Hero of Ferelden, murdered on Antivan soil...the king would likely march off to war, as soon as he was finished beheading me for agreeing to this madness! Not to mention that you want to take two of the most senior Wardens in Ferelden along with you, when we're right in the middle of –"

"Rebuilding the order; yes, I know," Solona said tiredly, propping her elbows on the table and resting her face in her hands. "So you've said, several times already."

"That makes 3, by my count," Oghren called from the other end of the table. "I say good on ya, Commander. Take the fight to them. And I've always wanted to try some of that Antivan brandy."

Nathaniel shot the dwarf a dirty look. "And you want to leave me in command? _Me_? Do you know how much most of this nation still reviles the Howe name?"

Solona reached for her mug of ale, suddenly wishing she had something stronger. "Nathaniel, I have spent most of today arguing, first with Varel, and then the sodding nobles, and now you, and none of you are going to change my mind. Will you please just accept that I'm going, and that I trust you to deal with things in my absence? You already know everything about ruling this arling, and the people will remember that you fought to save them from the darkspawn."

"And," Anders said cheerfully around a mouthful of food, "if all else fails, you can always win them over with your sparkling personality."

Nathaniel sighed. "Just please be careful; I'd rather this assignment not become permanent."

Solona pushed her empty plate away and stood. "Anders and Oghren, you should get some sleep. We're leaving at dawn. And don't worry, Nathaniel, everyone will be fine." Then, smiling grimly, she added, "Except for the Crows."

* * *

Zevran approached the bay, mentally cursing the beautiful fishwife for providing him with such sparse information. The hints she passed along were often vague, but this - a single name and a veiled suggestion to visit the docks- was maddening. He sauntered along the waterfront, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he searched for someone who would suit his purpose. He could remain unseen if he wished, but he also knew how to draw the right kind of attention. It was all in the way he carried himself, the exaggerated fluidity and grace of his moments. The weapons on his back would add to the appeal, he knew; there were few who could resist that hint of danger.

It was not long before he spotted the perfect mark: a young elf unloading boxes from a recently moored ship. He was alone in his task, occasionally sparing a nervous glance toward a nearby human, whom Zevran assumed was his master. The human was berating a small boy who, from what Zevran could hear of the conversation, had attempted to steal his coinpurse. The elven dockworker looked up and spotted Zevran, his eyes lingering a moment too long before he flushed and looked away. Zevran recognized the look of one who has seen something he wants, but understands it is forbidden. It was a feeling he was all too familiar with himself. Zevran slowed, pretending to search for something, then let his eyes rest on the other elf, as though he had only just noticed him.

"Hello there, my young friend," Zevran said, deliberately moving to stand a little too close. "I wonder if you could help me with something."

"What, me?" the young man squeaked. His dark eyes widened as they met Zevran's, and he began to tug nervously at the bottom of his tattered shirt. "Um, I mean…yes, of course."

"So many people, coming and going…you must learn many interesting things, yes?" Zevran asked. The other elf nodded, standing a little straighter, and Zevran smiled. It was almost too easy. "Tell me, is the name Caterina familiar to you?"

His new acquaintance froze, darting a panicked look at the nearby human, who was still gesturing angrily at the cowering child. "Do not worry about him," Zevran said. "He is distracted, and we are just making friendly conversation. Perhaps you could start by telling me your name."

"It's…Gabriel, ser," he answered hesitantly.

"Ah, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Zevran said. "Now tell me, Gabriel, of Caterina. I can see that you know who she is; there is no use denying it. But I assure you, I can make it worth your while." He filled the words with promise, breathing them into Gabriel's ear, but the younger elf shook his head, staring at the ground.

"I can't," Gabriel whispered. "I don't know who you are, but you must leave. They will kill me." He looked up, his eyes wild, and scrubbed a hand through his short brown hair, making it stick up crazily. Zevran would have been tempted to laugh if his plan hadn't been going so terribly awry. He was eyeing the human, wondering if the young man was truly so afraid of his employer, when comprehension suddenly dawned.

"I must be losing my touch," Zevran muttered, half to himself. "To stumble blindly into a conversation with a Crow."

Gabriel started violently at the mention of the Crows, confirming Zevran's suspicion. Gabriel glanced around frantically, and, seeing that he was about to run, Zevran grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged him close.

"Believe me when I tell you," Zevran said, abandoning all pretense of flirting, "that I could kill you before you manage a single word."

Gabriel began to tremble, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps, as Zevran watched with a combination of pity and disgust. What was this? A Crow so green that he would succumb when threatened by an opponent with no weapon drawn…it was all but unthinkable. In Zevran's experience, one did not live through boyhood with the Crows without becoming a great deal more thick-skinned. But these were questions for later; the sky was beginning to darken, and he still had no information.

Zevran maneuvered Gabriel until they were partially hidden from sight by a stack of crates, and began to rethink his plan. He wondered briefly how Solona would have dealt with the frightened elf. She had been a terror in battle, but whenever possible preferred to use her considerable charm instead. Zevran's own talent for coercion was more suited to talking unsuspecting marks into bed than gaining loyal followers, but it was worth a try. "Gabriel," he said quietly. "I can help you, but you must tell me everything, quickly."

"You…you can't help me," Gabriel said. His eyes were fixed on the ground once more, and though he had regained some of his composure, Zevran could see his hands shaking. "There is no escaping the Crows."

Zevran laughed. "I think you will find that is not entirely true. Come, now – tell me of Caterina."

Gabriel sighed, burying his face in his hands. "The Caterina," he said at last, "is a ship."

* * *

A/N: So Varel has to have an office, right? He can't possibly just stand around in the throne room all day.

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing, and to mille libri and Vshard for putting up with me while I obsessed over where this story was going.


	5. Chapter 5

Solona clung to a railing slick with relentless spray and held her breath as the sun set over the horizon. The wind had picked up, and the ship rocked as it cut through the water, disturbing the illusion that the sea had been painted red and gold to match the sky. She thought that she'd seen much of the world in her travels, but this was nothing like the endless treks across the bleak Fereldan countryside. It was vast, wild and exhilarating, and for the first time since coming to Amaranthine, she felt alive.

Anders had watched her closely all day, as though gauging her mood. He knew that this was her first time on a vessel larger than the ferry across Lake Calenhad. He also understood what it meant for her to go to Antiva, and she suspected that he questioned her motives in making the journey. In truth, she wasn't certain of them herself. She had thought that the passage of time would soften her memories of Zevran, ease the pain of loss, but it seemed that the ache only grew. She missed the way he lived with reckless abandon, his boundless energy and determination to make every moment count, all the more now that her own life was so unsatisfying.

"Do you think you'll find him there?"

Solona turned to find Anders beside her, hair plastered to his face and eyes reddened from the stinging spray. He looked uncharacteristically reserved, cautious, and she knew what he was really asking. _Do you _want_ to find him_?

"I don't know where he went…if he's even still alive. But he loved Antiva City." It seemed so inadequate, but how could she answer when she was unsure of her own feelings? They stood in silence, staring out at the sea, and the sun had all but disappeared from the sky before she spoke again. "Do you think I'm being foolish?"

Anders sighed, pushing his hair from his eyes as he faced her. "I think…that this thing with the Crows needs to be dealt with, and that you would never leave the Wardens unless you thought it had to be done. But I also think that part of you is hoping for answers."

Up close, Solona could see that he was tired and worried, and she felt a twinge of guilt. For undertaking this dubious journey and taking two of her Wardens away from their duties to follow her…for making Anders suffer in the shadow of a man she would never be able to forget.

"Sometimes I wonder if it didn't mean anything to him at all…if _I_ never meant anything. Wynne knew, almost before I did, how I felt about him. She tried to warn me, told me that he cared only for himself, and that he would hurt me in the end. But he was different with me." She closed her eyes, remembering. "There were times when he would let his guard down, and I could see the person he might have been, if things were different."

_She'd lost track of how long they'd been in the Deep Roads; she knew only that her control was beginning to slip. She'd just started to grow accustomed to a life outside captivity, and the tunnels made her feel trapped, like a cornered animal. It was difficult and dangerous, being a Warden – a death sentence, in many ways – but for all that, it was freedom. She longed for the simple reminders that she was alive: the way the sun burned her pale skin, and her lips grew chapped from bitter wind. When rain woke her in the middle of the night, she would climb out of her tent to stand, face upturned, reveling in the cold._

_So to be surrounded again by walls, where she could almost feel the weight of Thedas pressing down, and her skin crawled ceaselessly with the knowledge of darkspawn… it was torment. The others, even Alistair, accepted her false bravado without question, but Zevran had known. _

_She'd been sitting some distance from her slumbering companions, attempting to tire her eyes and mind by reading a book of spells. She'd taken it from the tower's library after the attack, and no matter how many times her brain insisted it was impossible, she imagined that she could still smell those terrible days in the binding - blood and lyrium and fear. These thoughts did nothing to still her growing panic, and when Zevran materialized at her side, she raised a hand instinctively, marshalling her power for an attack. He caught her wrist, halting the half-formed words on her lips._

"_It is merely I," he whispered, sinking to the ground beside her. "I would appreciate it if you did not turn me into a block of ice; it is already quite cold enough down here."_

_Solona huffed in amusement. It was not quite a laugh, but it brought a smile to Zevran's handsome face, and she spent a long moment lost in his strange, pale eyes before realizing that he still held her wrist. His grip was surprisingly gentle, and as she watched, his long, nimble fingers, dark against her own skin, ghosted over the delicate veins. She thought perhaps it was meant to be comforting – his attempts at seduction were usually much more blatant – but she found her pulse quickening at the sensation. It occurred to her that she should pull away, and her glance drifted guiltily to where Alistair lay nearby, twitching in his sleep. _

_Alistair had been the only constant in her life for so long, sweet and honorable and almost painfully innocent. When she'd found herself suddenly adrift in an unfamiliar world, he'd been there, depending on her, giving her purpose. When the tower had fallen and the only family she'd ever known lay slaughtered, or worse, she'd found comfort in his arms. _

_But here in the Deep Roads, with her nerves frayed from the presence of darkspawn, that connection she normally cherished, that ability to sense the other Warden when he was nearby, put her even more on edge. But Zevran…Zevran was warmth and light and the absence of fear, and she was unwilling to relinquish this brief oasis in the midst of her own personal nightmare._

_From somewhere in the distance came the clatter of falling rocks, echoing eerily through the narrow passageways. Solona shivered as her imagination supplied a plethora of foul creatures that might have caused the disturbance. Zevran felt her tremble and pulled her close, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and the hand that had caught her wrist now absently massaging her cold fingers. His body was solid and warm against hers, somehow both reassuring and unsettling. _

"_Tell me a story, Zev." The words felt childlike, particularly considering the intimacy of their position, but he regarded her seriously._

"_You wish to hear another of my adventures?"_

"_Something…." She hesitated, aware of how vulnerable she was in that instant. She rarely allowed her weaknesses to show, never admitted that she was uncertain and tired, and yet, she found that she couldn't turn away, couldn't look away. "Something to make me forget."_

_She half expected him to smirk and mock her fears, or make a lewd suggestion, but he was frowning slightly, deep in thought. Then he looked up and smiled, one of his rare, true smiles that made her breath catch in her throat. _

"_I believe I know just the tale…."_

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_

Echoing footsteps and the clatter of loose stone broke the heavy silence inside the cave, and Zevran shook his stiff limbs and eased farther into the shadows. It had been risky, leaving the docks ahead of the Crows, but Gabriel had been certain that his master would bring their victim here. The target had somehow learned about the plot against his life, and his abrupt departure from Rivain had made it impossible for the assassins to place a man on the _Caterina_ before the ship departed.

The Crows had undoubtedly planned their attack with the same logic Zevran applied – a straightforward assault would draw too much attention. Though the assassins cared little for the fates of innocent victims, and the city guard was easily bribed, abduction was simpler and cheaper. The entrance to the cave was easily accessible from the waterfront, but virtually invisible to the casual passerby - it had once been the base of a smuggler who had fallen victim to his own greed and the wrath of the Crows.

The human Crow who had been with Gabriel on the docks entered the cavern first, an unconscious, dark-skinned man slung over his shoulder. Gabriel followed close behind, his harsh breathing loud in the confined space. The human dropped his prisoner carelessly, and the man's head met the floor with a sharp crack. His head lolled to one side, and Zevran, staring from his hiding place several feet away, realized that the captive had only a single eye. The right side of the Rivaini man's face was smooth and handsome, but the left had been reduced to a mass of old, deep scars.

The Crow master slid a dagger from the sheath on his back and offered it to Gabriel with a twisted smile. "Here, little knife-ears. Your first kill. I've already done all the hard work; now let's teach this scum a lesson about getting on the wrong side of the Crows."

Gabriel froze, his unblinking gaze focused on the blade, and Zevran cursed silently. The boy was meant to attack his master, distract him long enough for Zevran to spring from the shadows, but he seemed paralyzed by indecision or fear. The human saw his reluctance and seized him roughly by the shirt, dragging him close to hiss a threat that sent a tremor through the boy's emaciated body. Neither of them saw the prisoner on the floor stir or reach for the knife hidden in his boot.

The captive lunged at Gabriel, and Zevran took the opportunity to sprint from his hiding place and tackle the older Crow. A brief twinge of something like guilt burned in his chest, but he shoved it aside. He could not reach the boy in time, and the knife had been small. The master possessed both weapons and reflexes far more deadly than that of the Rivaini prisoner. The human was larger and stronger, but Zevran had the element of surprise and a furious determination, and the Crow managed no more than a minute's ineffective grappling before Zevran's blade slid between his ribs.

The captive had fallen to his knees, and though blood trickled slowly from his scalp, he appeared otherwise unharmed. He looked up as Zevran approached, his good eye struggling to focus before narrowing in suspicion. Gabriel lay nearby, his eyes glassy and wide, a small pool of blood staining the stone beneath him. Zevran crouched beside Gabriel, relieved to find the young man still breathing despite the blade lodged in his side.

"Why did you intervene?" the Rivaini demanded as he struggled to his feet. His voice was low and harsh, his accent so thick it was nearly impenetrable. "You do yourself no favors, angering the Crows."

Zevran laughed humorlessly. "I am uninterested in favors, whether they benefit you or myself. My only goal is the destruction of the Crows, which in this case happened to involve preventing your death. I suggest that if you wish to thank me for it, you leave Antiva quickly, before they discover you still live." He waved a hand in dismissal, and the disfigured man studied him for a long moment before turning and limping from the cave.

Zevran turned to Gabriel, quashing the sudden fear awakened by the other elf's sickly pallor. He was an assassin, not a nursemaid - if he was concerned, it was undoubtedly only because the boy complicated his plans. "Come, we must disappear. Can you walk?"

Gabriel shook his head, refusing to meet Zevran's eyes. His words came in pained spurts, interrupted by ragged gasps for breath. "No. Hurts too much. Just…go without me. I know you tried."

Zevran sighed and knelt to gather Gabriel into his arms, careful of the protruding knife. He stood, staggering slightly as his straightened his knees. The boy was heavier than he looked, and it was a long walk to Zevran's lodgings.

"Just leave me," Gabriel insisted, struggling weakly. "I was _supposed_ to die. I can't…." He hissed as they emerged on the surface, the movement jostling his wound. "I'm not good for anything else."

Zevran exhaled impatiently. "Do you think you are the first to make a mistake? I have lived through far more humiliating blunders."

Gabriel finally turned his head to look at Zevran. He was clearly terrified and in pain, but curiosity had replaced the despair in his voice. "Really?"

Zevran peered around a corner, checking that the way was clear before ducking into a dark alley. As his eyes swept the streets for danger, the wind shifted, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of the sea and a memory that made him long for a simpler time.

"Yes. I could tell you of one assignment that took place when I was near the age you are now. I had been sent to deal with a smuggler who was interfering with a wealthy merchant's business. I was to find my way onto his ship and make it appear as though he had met an untimely, but accidental, end at sea…."

He hesitated, suddenly remembering the last time he had told this story. The traitorous, sentimental voice in his head was shouting at him to stop, because he had shared it with no one else, and if he did so it would no longer be _theirs_. Solona had always been terribly amused by tales of his misadventures, though he understood there was no malice behind it, and he'd known it would cheer her.

He'd found her cowering with her back against the wall, that night in the Deep Roads, wide-eyed and shivering, and though later it would occur to the assassin that she'd been easy prey, all he could think was to put a smile back on her lovely face. He'd never seen her afraid – she faced down angry templars, ruthless mercenaries, and legions of darkspawn with the same straight back and fierce scowl – and it unnerved him. So when she'd asked for his help, trusted him, he'd done so without a second thought. He'd told her of the sea, of wide open places and brisk wind and salty air, and he'd seen her eyes grow unfocused as she forgot her surroundings and slowly relaxed against him. Something in that moment had made him feel worthwhile, powerful in a way that watching the life drain from a target never had.

"Ser? I mean, Zevran?" the boy asked uncertainly. "You don't have to-"

"No," Zevran interrupted, annoyed at his own distraction. "It's nothing. I bribed my way onto the ship, where I posed as one of the crew. It was my first time at sea, and I feared that I would give myself away with my ineptitude, so I resolved to strike at the first opportunity. It was but two days' journey, and I hoped that the man's disappearance would go unnoticed until we'd arrived.

"That first night, I saw my chance. The weather was poor and the sea rough, and most of the crew had gone below, but the smuggler was standing alone, looking out at the sky. I tried to approach him silently, but I slipped on the wet deck, and he turned to see me with a dagger in my hand. We struggled for some time, but he was stronger, and I knew he would win in the end. He disarmed me, and I was waiting for the killing blow when the wind suddenly worsened and began to toss the ship. We both stumbled, then his hand was around my arm, and we both went overboard. The smuggler must have hit his head as we fell, because I found him floating facedown in the water. I panicked, struggling to stay afloat, certain that at any moment I would be washed out to sea.

"Eventually someone noticed our absence and heard my shouts for help, and I was rescued. I said that I had seen the smuggler fall, and in attempting to save him, been pulled overboard myself. I was certain that they would see through my flimsy excuse, but the crew believed me, and called my efforts heroic. I, of course, told a slightly different version of the story to my master when I returned, and was handsomely rewarded."

Gabriel's eyes had gone wide, his mouth hanging open slightly, and the expression was so absurd that Zevran snorted in amusement. It had been longer than he cared to think about since he'd had cause for laughter, since he'd felt he deserved it, and there was something almost cleansing about the act. Then Gabriel, who had begun to chuckle as well, was struck by a fit of coughing, a wet, wheezing sound that made Zevran double his pace, though his legs were already burning. He attempted to murmur something comforting, distracted by the blood he felt soaking through his gloves, and found himself wishing that he knew more of saving lives than taking them.

* * *

A/N: My apologies for the ridiculously long delay. I'm terrible at writing fight scenes, and this one came kicking and screaming. Thanks go to Fluidfyre and Vshard for their help sorting it out.


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